The ring was still on her finger when she woke up.She had not taken it off. Not from sentimentality, not from performance, but from the specific, uncomplicated fact that she had gone to sleep still wearing it and had not thought to remove it because it felt, from the moment Julian placed it there, like something that had always been meant to be in that position.She lay in bed in the apartment on West Eleventh and looked at the ceiling for a moment before looking at her hand.Then she looked at her hand.The ring was simple. Not understated in the way of something that was apologizing for itself. Simple in the way of something that knew exactly what it was and did not require additional language.Julian had known.Of course he had.He had known her ring size through Dana who had called her mother and her mother had known because her mother was the kind of woman who stored information about her daughter with the thoroughness of someone who had decided that knowing was a form of love.
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